


Songs Whispered to Bone

by aurekene



Category: Diabolik Lovers, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen, alternate universe - skyrim, cries tears of blood, i think about this a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurekene/pseuds/aurekene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stories we hear are of how she ascended to Sovengarde and back; slew dragons and shed blood, never tears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs Whispered to Bone

**Author's Note:**

> An AU fic, so please keep that in mind! I wasn't sure how to tag this, so I'm sorry for any inconvenience. And I hope you enjoy! 
> 
> (Note: Dunmer!Yui, Dragonborn!Yui)

It stirs and boils in her diaphragm, the muscle is the pot and raw power is the stew. It sounds silly no doubt but its all that Yui can compare it too. It surges up and down her spine, a thousand fingers and crackles of energy skittering up and down every vein in her body; every bone is on fire and her ribs shift to make room for that moment.

She’s warm amidst the winds that only Winterhold could brew — snow and hail scrape her cheeks red, fragile enough for her flesh to easily become paint against an untouched canvas. The dragon that beats its wings so easily against the weather, she guesses, would have taken delight in such a thing — the flower was trapped. It wouldn’t be an unknown feeling either. Her blood had been spilled far more times than she could recall, more times than a girl of 16 years probably should have been spared for just one season more. Her mage’s frame toted scars that were only seen on the lumbering and broad statures on only the most war wearied Nords — but it was fact that they need not be old or young; man, woman, Mer or Beastfolk: in Skyrim, everyone had scars, and so Yui fit in at first.

But here and now, she was a legend to some, a pawn to others, and just a mere pretender to the great spirit before her; elk lined palms that held blazing heat and a swirling storm in the other, her boots were no match for the snow that sank her down to her knees; and her fury, her joy, worries and pain, all of these things intermingling together until she lets go and bares her teeth before the dragon. Neither her enemy, nor her kin.

Her Voice shatters the silence of The Pale.

From the College to Dawnstar, echoing just enough into the ears of Whiterun’s children who wake up and rush to their windows, Yui is heard.

Such a thing was bittersweet — her dreams in a cage, in the den of men who vied for her blood more so her hand, consisted of singing songs atop the Throat of the World. She would sing of the teeth that dug into her flesh; hum and whistle of the day foolhardy, fortune seeking bandits raided the secluded manor; Yui would howl the fate of those heathens, but remind everyone that their deaths were not in vain, for she climbed over their bodies strewn like broken toys along the hall and she cried when she met the sun’s embrace once more. She cried because it was pure luck.

The mage, with her affinity to light and a healing touch, is heard in a way that she did not ask for but the fate is her’s. Whether she wanted this or not, it was too late to worry if her shoulders weren’t large enough to shoulder it all. Her fate was everyone’s fate, in the end. The world was watching her, counting on her. This dragon was simply doing a performance evaluation.

And she forms the words as if she has spoken in the tongue all her life. Each syllable enunciated well enough for a blind dragon with a failing sense of scent to mistaken the small Dunmer girl for another of their kind. She speaks as the Dovah should, but the power in her Voice is louder. Stronger. It’s pained and scared, but the tiny little girl is smart to keep such things contained to her Thu’um and nothing more.

 

Three simple words.

Fus.

Ro.

Dah.

Another battle, another concerto begins. Soprano and something too deep and old, seasoned and grand to be just called baritone, clash against each other in a quarrel. The dragon eggs the Dunmer on, taunting her struggle, and she spits back with fire from her gut and magic melded with steel in her hands. And when the dragon finally falls, when its soul and the bountiful memories carried with it are kept tucked into her heart, she lays down lavender stalks against the bones so mighty and terrible.

She then kneels and sings her sole story, the one that man will never hear. She still remembers that first and foremost, she is a girl of 16 years and it is far too soon for the world to need her this way.

Yui sings her song, and then leaves her tracks to be brushed away by the wind, covered with freshly fallen snow.


End file.
